


Blankets and Red Solo Cups

by Midnigtartist



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex has a nightmare, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Traumatic Events, Suggestive Themes, fluffy and nice, his home was hit by a hurricane so- yknow, thomas isn't an asshole for once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-14 01:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9151435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnigtartist/pseuds/Midnigtartist
Summary: No matter what Hamilton thinks, Thomas is a damn good listener, and he intends to prove it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so if you follow me on tumblr you my have already read this, but I honestly forget how cute this was so I wanted to post it on here as well. One of my shorter fics(i think I wrote it in like 5 hours or something crazy like that) but still I hope you enjoy it! Something sweet to start out the new year and hold you over until Tragedy Comes in Threes updates!

 

The hardwood beneath Thomas’ feet is cool, too cold for summer, but Angelica had warned him that the temperature really dips at night up in Maine, regardless of the time of year. He pulls the blanket he has drawn around his shoulders like a shawl tighter and sighs, the pads of his feet thumping softly on the floor as he makes his way down the hall.

When the eldest Schuyler sister had invited him to come with them up to their family’s lake house, a way to celebrate their entering their senior year of college, he’d hesitated to agree. Jefferson is more of a homebody, likes to keep to himself, even though he knows that when he gets out there he usually tends to have a good time. The year he’s spent studying in France was the best of his life, and still he would rather be at home, in his own room with a book and the warm Virginia air. He enjoys the Schuylers, they’re like him, old money. He gets along quite well with them, though the youngest can be a little too- in his face sometimes. What had giving him pause was the fact that the sisters had no doubt invited the rest of their friends as well. Laurens, Mulligan, Lafayette, and  of course, Alexander Hamilton. The loud mouth of all loud mouths. He’s a sophomore, or at least he should be but he’s so damn smart that he got to skip a year, the utter bastard. He’s indescribably annoying and he’s been bitching and whining ever since Thomas showed up earlier this afternoon. The Schuylers hadn’t let his and Hamilton’s usual bickering bring down the mood however and by the time Jefferson had gotten up to got to bed, just to escape the noise and more importantly Alexander, they were pulling out the salt and limes. No doubt a good time was had by all but him.

But it's nearly four in the morning now, and the big house is still and eerily silent, with shadows flickering against the walls. Thomas picks up his pace, just a little, the bed sheet he’s wrapped around himself fluttering out behind him. It wasn’t his decision to be up and walking at this hour in the morning but his body literally wouldn’t let him go without using the bathroom a moment longer and kicked him out from the warmth of his borrowed bed.

It's the first door on the right at the end of the hallway, he remembers Angelica telling him. The door creaks on old hinges as he pushes it open. When he steps back out into the hall he’s sure flick off the lights behind him, plunging him again into the dark of the early morning, with its muted gray palette.

Its then that he hears a loud thud, followed by the sound of something being dragged. His whole body stiffens at the noise, goosebumps trailing up his arms, because it sounds like it came from the next room over, from the living room. Who the hell is still up at this time of night? His brain immediately snaps to burglar/killer/psychopath, but he shakes the notion from his head, because that’s ridiculous. Yet he still finds his feet frozen to the hardwood. There’s another bang, like someone slamming cabinets, then Jefferson hears someone swear, and he knows exactly who it is.

He clenches his jaw tighten enough that it aches a bit and turn, striding briskly into the living room. It’s a huge, open space with a high ceiling and lots of big windows that let in all the moonlight and bath everything in a pale, silvery glow and cast long shadows across the floor. Plastic cups still litter the floor and the top of the coffee table, on the sofa and some even rest on the top of the TV,  a courtesy of the tall liquor cabinet at the far end of the room. The same one a tiny figure is riffling through, perched on top of a bar stool so he can see into the very back.

“Hamilton what the fuck do you think you’re doing” Jefferson snaps, folding his arms over his chest, and tightening the blanket around him.

The immigrant jumps, the legs of his perch wobbling unsteadily under his weight. Quickly he turns, eyes big and guilty even from across the room. But when he sees that it’s Jefferson, his whole demeanor changes. His shoulders low, his back relaxes and his eyes narrow into dangerous slits.

“What are _you_ doing?” he snaps back sharply, clearly still tense even if his body doesn’t express it.

Thomas rolls his eyes, taking a few shuffling steps into the room. “Well I _was_ going back to bed before you started disturbing the peace.”

Alexander huffs, blowing a few stray hairs from his eyes before turning back to the cabinet. It’s not often Jefferson sees him with his hair down like this.

“Well, I’m so sorry to have disrupted your perfect life, you can go the fuck back to bed now.” he mutters.

But Thomas doesn’t move, and for long time neither men says anything. The only sound is the buzz of cicadas beyond the glass and the clink of bottles as Hamilton searches the shelves feverishly.

He takes a few steps closer to Alexander and his stool. “What are you looking for?”

“Fuck off Jefferson” Hamilton spits

Thomas can feel the dull burn of annoyance that only Hamilton can seems to stir in him building in his stomach. He takes another step towards the smaller man.

“Hamilton what are you doing?” he stresses through clenched teeth.

“I said fuck OFF” The immigrant shrieks, voice cracking at the end.

He whips his head around to glare daggers at Jefferson, hair wild and everywhere, eyes red and puffy. Thomas hadn’t noticed that from across the room, but up close he can make out the tear stains on his flushed cheeks. He can’t help but gape, mouth falling open in a little ‘o’ of surprise. He’d alway just assumed Hamilton  was one of those people that just doesn’t cry. Never once had he seen Hamilton upset like that. When Alexander gets frustrated he just yells louder, gestures more, swears with vigor, stomps his feet and shouts. When he’s upset he gets mad, where as some of their more heated debates have been know to frustrate Thomas to the brink of tears.

Hamilton catches his staring and all but turns sheet white as he realizes his mistake, His big, glassy eyes go wide and he turns abruptly back to the cabinet, shoulders squaring up around his ears.

Thomas takes tentative step forward, actually concerned for Hamilton, because it must have been something big to get him worked up like this.

“Alexander-” he starts cautiously.

Hamilton’s movements are tight and jerky as he shifts bottles around. “I’m looking for the vodka.” he mutters harshly.

“Why are you looking for the vodka?”

“Because I need it, alright?!” he snaps back, sounding like he’s moments away from breaking. His hand closes around the clear stem of a bottle, which he drags out. “Oh thank fucking Christ.”

The little immigrant hops down from the stool, bottle in hand and fumbling to grab a plastic cup from the sleeve of them resting on the bar.  But Thomas swoops in and grabs the booze before Hamilton can get the cap off. He starts, strung out and jumpy. Then he make a swipe for the bottle.  
“I found first, jackass, give it back!”

But Thomas hold it high above his head and out of the reach of Hamilton’s grabby little hands. “It’s four in the morning Hamilton, you’re not having any vodka.”

Alexander slams his foot against the hardwood like a petulant child throwing a fit. “I need it, damn it!” he hisses.

“Why?” Jefferson asks sharply.  
“Because-” the other man starts, glaring hard up at Jefferson. Then his body language starts to shift. He drops his gaze to the floor, ducking his head so his long brown hair cover his face while his hands ball up into fists at his sides. He swallows. “Because-” he says again, slower this time. “- I had a bad dream.”

Jefferson blinks down at him, unsure as to whether he wants to laugh or not. The concept is ridiculous. The infallible, asinine Alexander Hamilton, always so sure of himself, can’t sleep because of a nightmare?

“So - what, did baby just think to come in here and grab a bottle.” He sneers. Severs the little bastard right for disturbing his night with this ridiculous bullshit. “You’re like twenty Hamilton, don’t you think you’re a little old to be wetting the bed?”

“ _Fuck you_ , Jefferson.” Alexander growls, shoving him hard, hard enough in the stomach to knock him back a few steps. “You’re an asshole! Fuck you! _Fuck_ -!” then he sobs, a gross, wet sound that makes Jefferson’s skin crawl. He presses his fingers hard over his mouth to stem the noise, but soft whimpers still slip from between his fingers, hair hanging in dark, lanky sheets around his face.

Jefferson stumbles, the crooked grin slipping from his face as Alexander’s narrow shoulders start to tremble. Maybe he went a little too far this time.

“Fuck I just-” Hamilton gasps. “I just want to get some fucking sleep.”

Thomas’ shoulders sag, the blanket starting to slip from around them. What do you even do in this situation? His natural instinct is to reach out and place his hand on the other man’s shoulder, to ground him to something, but the moment his fingertips brush Alexander’s arm, he jerks back.

 _“Don’t_ touch me” he wails. “Stupid, souther mother fucker don’t touch me.”

Jefferson glances over his shoulder, afraid that Hamilton’s sobs will wake the rest of the house and the last thing he wants is to be found like this. He’s sure Hamilton wouldn’t want that either. So he does the only other thing he can think of that may calm him and also protect himself from any bodily harm.

He slips the blanket from around his shoulders, exposing his bare arms to the cool sting of the night, and drapes it over Hamilton’s shuddering form. That catches his attention. The little immigrant peers accusingly up at Jefferson through his damp lashes.

“What are you d-doing” he hiccups, trying to make his raspy voice sound defiant.

“It’s cold.” Thomas says plainly. He tucks the corners of his blanket around Alexander's arms. “Just shut up and take my blanket.”

Alexander sweeps some hair behind his ear, holding his gaze for a moment like he’s expecting Jefferson to knock him over next or something. His slight frame occasionally shudders as a hiccup rips through him. Another moment of suffocating silence hangs between them, practically palpable. The weight of it presses down on Thomas, he shuffles uncomfortably, unsure if he can leave, unsure why he’s still here.

Alexander tucks some more hair nervously behind his ear. “Thanks, I guess.”

He shuffles past Thomas, plopping himself down on the sofa amongst the discarded solo cups, dropping his head into his waiting hands. His whole demeanor reeks of patheticness.

“Did-” Jefferson takes a tentative step towards him. “Did you want to talk- about it?”

“No” Hamilton snaps.

“Because maybe it you talked about it” Thomas continues. “You’ll feel less like shit.”

He’s standing in front of Alexander now, fingers twisting together anxiously. He just feels -bad. Like there’s something small and writhing in his gut, needling his insides and making his skin crawl. It’s off putting to see Hamilton like this, because it forces him to actually see him. As a human being with his sorrow and his hurt and his desperation, instead of just that loud little kid in front of his philosophy class. So anything that might get him to snap out of this depressive funk faster is a okay in Thomas’ book. Anything to make it easier for him to stop caring about Alexander, to stop worrying about him so he can go back to bed with a clean conscience.

Hamilton lifts his head slowly from his hands, gazing hard at Jefferson. The deep purple rings under his eyes and the shadows cast by the moon make his face look gaunt and empty. The only part of his face that still seems to possess some fire are his eyes, his brilliant, volatile brown eyes. Thomas’ heart sort of does a double take, thundering unevenly in his chest.

“Let me make this really clear so that you can understand.” Hamilton hisses around his clenched teeth. “I don’t want to talk about it with _you_.”

“Why not?” Jefferson asks, puffing up his chest indignantly. He’s a great listener, the fuck is Hamilton inferring.

The immigrant laughs harshly, a sharp, bitter sound that cuts through him like a cold breeze. “It’s not like we get along. We never have. And now you just expect me to spill my sobs story to you? What bullshit, like you’d even listen.” he mutters the last part, more so to himself, it would seem, then to Thomas.

Jefferson sits down right beside Alexander, holding his icy glare with a firm one of his own. “Try me” he says.

Alexander pauses, clearly not having anticipated this move. Thomas hadn’t thought he was going to do it either, honestly, until he was dropping onto the couch. He should have gone back to sleep before this whole thing started, because really, why should he care if Hamilton drinks himself into a stupor. Like he said, they're not friends, what the immigrant does isn't his problem. But something had given him pause, be it curiosity, empathy or possibly even, though very unlikely, genuine concern for Alexander. No matter what it was that made him stay, Thomas is involved now, and he desperately wants to see this thing to it’s conclusion, wants to know what could possibly make Alexander this upset.

After a moment Hamilton sighs, shoulders sagging as he deflates like a balloon before Jefferson’s very eyes. He doesn’t look at Jefferson as he starts to speak, just glares hard at the carpeting at his feet, looking exhausted.

“It’s the same dream I always have.’  He mutters bitterly, hands wringing in his lap. “Though, it’s more like a memory, I guess. From when Navis- my home- was destroyed.”

Jefferson’s brows draw together. “What happened?”

Alexander swallows. “I grew up in the Caribbean, until a hurricane hit the place and washed everything away, like, three years ago. I was kind of on my own by that point and I just remember all the carnage after the storm. The ripped up buildings and washed up bodies, all water logged and floating in the flooded streets. I used to play in those streets you know, so it-” he takes a shuddering breath, twisting fingers making Thomas feel anxious himself. “It was like the sea was trying to swallow us up whole, the whole town half buried by the waves and the other, completely leveled. I- I expressed it much better in my letter.” He finishes lamely, as though his brief account of the destruction hadn’t left Jefferson at the edge of his seat.

“And you-” he starts slowly, carefully treading the churning waves of Alexander’s delicate state. “You were caught up in all of it?”

The way Hamilton nods is stiff, mechanical. “I was fine, I didn’t die. I couldn’t just drown for some reason.”

Thomas winces at his phrasing.

“But I - yeah I bore witness to all of it. And sometimes still, when I close my eyes it’s like I’m back there” Hamilton’s voice quivers, whole body starting to tremble once more. “I can taste the salt of the rain on  my tongue and- smell the gasoline in the air. It smelled like how you imagine hell might smell, like fire and despair. And I can feel the water around my ankles, and it- it’s so cold and- and fuck” a shudder racked his narrow frame as he chokes on the words. “I can feel it swelling up around me, creeping up my legs and I -can’t - move. And people outside are screaming, and crying. Everyone shrieking and begging god to save them, but even the angels couldn’t hear them over the horrible wailing of the wind. And the sea keeps rising, encasing my chest in its icy embrace as it climbs higher, up along my neck. And I can’t breath.” He’s gasping now, tears spilling forth from his glassy, terrified eyes, slipping down his cheeks. His lungs shudder for air, one hand come up to clutch at his throat, as if icy fingers were enclosing themselves around it. “I can’t breath. I can’t- can’t-!”

Thomas reaches out and grabs the quivering hand still resting in Alexander’s lap, petrified. With his other hand, he sweeps the loose hair from Hamilton’s face.

“Alexander?” he tries, softly.

Suddenly Hamilton is melting into him, tightening wound little body dropping into Jefferson like a stone. He practically crawls into his lap, bawling his shaking hands into Thomas’ shirt front as he sobs. Gross,wet sobs that ravage his entire body. Guttural, choked sounds fall from his lips as he buries his face into Jefferson’s shoulder, short gasps from breath follow, their suddenness and sharpness cutting through him.

“-Fuck.” he gasps, punching out the ‘ck’. “Fuck, Thomas.”

A wave of goosebumps crawl across Jefferson’s skin, heart hammering. Gingerly he brings his arms up, enveloping Alexander's blanket swaddle form.

“It’s alright, it’s alright now.” he repeats in low voice.

Hamilton sobs harder, soaking the front of his shirt with no doubt spit and snot. But Jefferson pushs that aside for a moment, this isn't exactly the time to be petty. Instead, he combs his fingers gently through the smaller man’s hair.

“It’s alright Alexander. There’s no waves, you’re safe. They can’t hurt you anymore. You’re safe.”

“Safe” Hamilton breaths, dropping his hands from Jefferson’s shirt front, only to wind them around his back, drawing them impossibly closer. Then he sighs, stops shaking so violently, and just sort of slumps against Thomas’ chest. “Safe”

“That’s right.” Thomas sooths, rubbing little circles into Alexander’s back. “Just relax Alexander, relax and try to sleep.” Hamilton clutches him tighter. “I won’t go anywhere, if you don’t want me too”

With that little assurance, Alexander nods, snuggling deeper into Jefferson’s embrace. Thomas leans back enough that he can lay against the armrest, Hamilton half on top of him, supporting him from the bottom while simultaneously giving him room to breath. They stay like this for a while in silence. Their breathing starts to sync, Thomas unintentionally keeping pace with Hamilton breath for breath, counting the heart beats he feels against his chest. Alexander’s sobs turn into whimpers, and from whimpers into little hiccupping gasps, and still they don’t move. Thomas just continues to stroke his fingers through his hair, keeping him close.

He’s so warm, Jefferson notes almost absentmindedly. Alexander is a warm little weight on his chest. By all means his very presence should annoy Thomas, but it doesn’t. In fact, he blushes to admit that Alexander’s tiny body on his own is somewhat of a comfort, soft and pleasant. He glances down at the  little immigrant. His hair looks nice down, he decides, makes him look less harsh and more docile, and cute. Yeah, Alexander is really cute, now that he takes the time to look him over. With his smooth, ovular face and almost sallow brown skin, with those big, passionate eyes to pull it all together. And he looks especially adorable with his cheek smushed to Jefferson’s chest like this. Thomas’ stomach flutters uneasily. He’s such a goddamn hopeless romantic.

Hamilton groans, nuzzling into to Jefferson, and Jefferson inadvertently holds him tighter.

“Can’t sleep” he mutters across Thomas’ shirt front. “I’m too wired up to sleep now.”

Jefferson shifts a little beneath him. “Well if you can't sleep we could do other things.”

Alexander’s head whips up in his direction faster than is probably good for his neck, eyes round. “What do you mean?” he asks, but Thomas can tell his line of thinking is following the same path as his.

Jefferson sucks in a breath. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but in the moment it just sort of slipped. He pushes himself into more of a seated position, still holding Hamilton to his side. And he thinks, though a hot blush of embarrassment decorating his cheeks, fuck it. He already said it, and there's no way to take it back so mind as well run with it.

He slides slowly from the sofa until he’s kneeling on the floor in front of Alexander, never breaking his gaze, even as he sets his hands on the smaller man’s thighs. A gentle question.

Hamilton’s breath stutters

“Oh”

 

 

 

 

Creeping shadows brought on by the waking sun are the first to find them. The dark shapes climb over their intertwined forms, twisted together under Thomas’ thin blanket. Alexander yawns, brow furrowing and nose scrunching up, and Jefferson can’t help but smile.

“Oh, so now you’re sleepy.” he teases.

Hamilton simply huffs in response, burrowing deeper into the little pocket of warmth they've created.

“Don’t test me jackass, I’ll still bust out your kneecaps.”

Thomas chuckles, swooping down to place a kiss to the top his tangled hair. “You’re so cute.”

“Fuck off.” Hamilton spits, trying to kick him under the blankets, and only succeeding in getting them more tangled up.

The quite embraces them and Thomas closes his eyes, trying to relish in this moment of peace, devoid of Hamilton’s yammering. But like all good things, it doesn’t last long.

“This is kind of weird, isn’t it?” Alexander interjects.

Jefferson cracks one tried eye to stare down at the immigrant “How so?”

“Well it’s just-” he starts, fidgeting a bit. “We hate each other, or I guess we used to. But that’s the thing. What are we now. Like are we...?”

“If that’s what you want us to be” Thomas replies, answering Hamilton’s unfinished question. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to his mouth. He can still taste himself on the other man’s lips. When he pulls back, he’s relieved to see he isn’t the only one who’s flustered. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

“Oh thank god” Alexander breaths. “So that means I can keeping kissing you, right? Because I really like doing that.”

And Thomas laughs, laughs so hard he nearly started crying, because what an absurd, Hamilton thing to ask.

“I damn well hope you’re going to kiss me. Cause I wasn’t planning on stopping anytime soon.”


End file.
